Rio Grande's Last Race & Other Verses Part 13

So the word went round to the English troops to say they need fight no more, For Driver Smith with his ambulance had ended the blooming war: And in London now at the music halls he's starring it every night, And drawing a hundred pounds a week to tell how he won the fight.

There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down

When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, Without a care or trouble on your mind, And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round, And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind; In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise, And a clatter on the deck above your crown, And you'll hear the corporal shout as he turns the picket out, 'There's another blessed horse fell down.'

You can see 'em in the morning, when you're cleaning out the stall, A-leaning on the railings nearly dead, And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall, And you curse them as you tumble into bed.

Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, 'Pa.s.s the word for Denny Moon, There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown; And it's 'Shove the others back or he'll cripple half the pack, There's another blessed horse fell down.'

And when the war is over and the fighting all is done, And you're all at home with medals on your chest, And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest; As you lie in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep, And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown, Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, 'It's nothing new, It's another blessed horse fell down.'

On the Trek

Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, With sun above and silent veldt below; And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away, And the homestead where the climbing roses grow.

Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain?

Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough?

Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, For we're going on a long job now.

In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep, With the endless line of waggons stretching back, While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep, Plodding silent on the never-ending track, While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see Makes you wonder will your turn come -- when and how?

As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- Oh! we're going on a long job now.

When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead, And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice, Or you've watched your old mate dying -- with the vultures overhead, Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price.

And down along Monaro now they're starting out to shear, I can picture the excitement and the row; But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year, For we're going on a long job now.

The Last Parade

With never a sound of trumpet, With never a flag displayed, The last of the old campaigners Lined up for the last parade.

Weary they were and battered, Shoeless, and knocked about; From under their ragged forelocks Their hungry eyes looked out.

And they watched as the old commander Read out, to the cheering men, The Nation's thanks and the orders To carry them home again.

And the last of the old campaigners, Sinewy, lean, and spare -- He spoke for his hungry comrades: 'Have we not done our share?

'Starving and tired and thirsty We limped on the blazing plain; And after a long night's picket You saddled us up again.

'We froze on the wind-swept kopjes When the frost lay snowy-white.

Never a halt in the daytime, Never a rest at night!

'We knew when the rifles rattled From the hillside bare and brown, And over our weary shoulders We felt warm blood run down,

'As we turned for the stretching gallop, Crushed to the earth with weight; But we carried our riders through it -- Carried them p'raps too late.

'Steel! We were steel to stand it -- We that have lasted through, We that are old campaigners Pitiful, poor, and few.

'Over the sea you brought us, Over the leagues of foam: Now we have served you fairly Will you not take us home?

'Home to the Hunter River, To the flats where the lucerne grows; Home where the Murrumbidgee Runs white with the melted snows.

'This is a small thing surely!

Will not you give command That the last of the old campaigners Go back to their native land?'

They looked at the grim commander, But never a sign he made.

'Dismiss!' and the old campaigners Moved off from their last parade.

With French to Kimberley

The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one!

Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good, Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood.

They built them forts from bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall, They flashed a message to the south 'Help! or the town must fall!'

And down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

He made no march along the line; he made no front attack Upon those Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen back; But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley, Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way.

The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs, Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns.

The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall Rode back in haste: 'He marches east! He threatens Jacobsdal!'

Then north he wheeled as wheels the hawk and showed to their dismay, That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

His column was five thousand strong -- all mounted men -- and guns: There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons; They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers s.p.a.ce, And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race!

From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows, From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows; And in the front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent: With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went.

Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo.

From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array, To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank.

The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank.

The long, dry gra.s.s was all ablaze, and fierce the veldt fire runs; He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns!

Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died; We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride.

Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.